


Kissing Santa Claus

by framboise



Series: A Westerosi Yuletide [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Catelyn does not approve, Christmas, Daddy Issues, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Smut, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rare Pairings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-01 22:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Sansa is expecting her family to embarrass her when she brings her new, older, boyfriend home for Christmas but she isn't expecting Arya to challenge him to an arm-wrestling match, her mother to interrogate the both of them quite so fiercely, or Rickon to confuse Davos with Santa..."I don't think I've done a Santa roleplay before," Davos muses, when the two of them are back upstairs in her room. "Do you want to give it a go, be my Mistress Claus?""No," Sansa says, laughing and shaking her head back and forth."Good, I'm open to many things in the bedroom, as you well know, but I draw the line at wearing a fatsuit. Is that terrible of me?" he asks with a straight face while Sansa cackles away on the bed. "Are you laughing at me? Sex is a serious matter, Sansa, no giggling allowed," he says mock-sternly, leaning over to kiss her.





	Kissing Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of multipairing stories for Yuletide.
> 
> Modern AU. Sansa is 24, Davos is 49.  
> Ned died of natural causes 7 years ago, a few months before Rickon was born.
> 
> if you want visuals for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/168071138732/sansa-is-expecting-her-family-to-embarrass-her)

 

 

Sansa should have realised that this Christmas was going to test the limits of her ability to withstand embarrassing situations when she was mistaken not one, not twice, but three times for being her boyfriend's daughter - by the waiter at the airport restaurant, by the perky air stewardess, by the kindly old man sitting across the aisle from them on the plane. Each time Davos had politely corrected them, in his usual affable manner, and then given Sansa a sidelong look calculated to make her laugh.

"Is it the jumper, you think?" he asks as he pulls on his seatbelt in their hire car. "Does navy make me look particularly paternal?"

"No, I think it's the grey hair," she says, "and the grey beard."

"Hush, you," he says and reaches over to tweak her nose.

She smiles and leans over to rest her head on his shoulder as he reverses out of the busy car park. "I like your jumper, it's my favourite one."

"Is it?" he asks, taking one hand off the wheel to stroke her hair.

"You look like a hardy fisherman," she says and turns her face to breathe in the smell of wool and tobacco and the good cologne he's wearing today.

"Are you the mermaid I've caught in my net then?"

She nods her head up and down against him and then shifts back over to her own seat. She tilts her head against the seat rest to watch him in the low light of the winter's afternoon, his small smile, his ever-present frown, the large weathered hand on the steering wheel and the other on the clutch. The road turns and as the sunlight hits the windscreen he flips the car visor down and then looks over to her and puts his hand on her leg and squeezes. She feels her heart clench in response, and bites her lip.

How could she ever explain all the small things he does that make her love him, even that motion with the visor made her feel warm which is ridiculous to admit, or the way he had pulled both their suitcases through the airport and refused her offer of help, the joke he made in the lift which made an old lady snort with laughter, the bemused pat on the head he gave a small pomerian dog that had come up to him the car park, the half cigarette he had smoked as he opened the boot of the car to heft the suitcases inside. He has an ease with the world, a competence, that she finds bewitching. Since her terrible teenage years, Sansa has often felt that she doesn't fit in anywhere, that she's all awkward elbows and knees behind a thin unconvincing facade, and that her presence jars whatever pleasant scene she walks through, but _he_ fits no matter what situation he's put in, nothing ever seems to faze him.

That's the reason why she isn't too worried about introducing him to her family for the first time today. Sure, her siblings will probably do their best to embarrass him, and her, and there'll be awkward comments about the age difference, but Davos is so good at breaking any tension with a joke or his patented _well, this is awkward_ observation, and she feels safe by his side. Safer than she ever has with a boyfriend.

Her dad would have liked him, she thinks, after he had got over their similar ages, and she's achingly sad that he isn't alive to meet him. The two men were similar in other ways - their kindness and sense of duty, a love of the outdoors and an interest in history - although Davos is both more good-natured than her solemn father was, and more cynical about the world. But the similarities were probably part of what attracted her to Davos in the first place, and it's something she's discussed with the therapist she started seeing in the last few years, and with Davos himself. He's open to talking about everything with her, welcomes it, he never makes her feel stupid, or responds to her questions with moody silence like her other boyfriends. He doesn't hurt her like her last boyfriend either, she thinks darkly, shutting her eyes tightly and then opening them to watch him and forget all the other idiots that came before.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, glancing over.

"Just thinking how lucky I am to have you," she says, smiling shyly.

He smiles back and as the car comes to a stop at a red light he leans over and kisses her and she shivers at the feeling of his soft beard brushing against her chin.

"Are you nervous?" she asks him.

"About meeting your family? Well, I hope they don't hate me, because that wouldn't be fun for you, but no, I'm not nervous," he settles back in his seat as the light goes green. "I've faced off sharks and modern day pirates on the open sea, and only lost one finger for my troubles," he holds up the stump on his left hand, "dealt with four children under five with a vomiting bug while my wife was on a well-deserved holiday, charmed my way out of police cells in two different countries with less-than-understanding dictatorial leaderships, how much worse could a handful of siblings and your mother be? Don't answer that," he adds mock-sternly as she opens her mouth to correct him. "As long as your sister doesn't have her bow with her, I should be fine," he adds.

Arya has just been named to the Olympic archery team which has made their mother sigh with relief that she finally has an income and hasn't fulfilled her teenage promise of becoming a tearaway. Catelyn's worries about Arya and Bran, who had his last scheduled operation on his spine this year, and Rickon, who teachers have charitably described as 'spirited', have been part of the reason why Sansa has gotten away with being as vague as possible about Davos when her mother has asked her on the phone what she's been up to lately. Her mother does know about Davos but it's possible she isn't aware of how large the age difference is, nor that he has seven grown up sons and an ex-wife.

"It's not Arya's bow and arrows you should be afraid of, it's my mother," Sansa says.

"I'm good with mothers, they like my jokes, unlike certain impertinent young ladies," he says, raising his eyebrows at her and she rolls her eyes fondly.

"I'd like your jokes if they were better."

"Oi."

"It's an issue of class with her," she sighs. "It's not the age difference, it's that you don't come from a _good family_ , that you're not a CEO."

"Hmm, she would have loved Stannis, is what you're saying?" he asks.

"Probably, even though he's got all the charm of a stinging nettle."

He laughs. "I won't let her know about that night in Essos then, don't want to get her hopes up," he says slyly as Sansa covers her warm face with her hands.

She'll die before she ever tells her mother about the infamous drunken night she and Davos spent with Stannis in a hot tub, after she flew out during her long summer holidays to join the tail end of their work trip last year, a few days before Stannis had met and fell madly in love with his second wife Melisandre. Stannis would probably die too if she ever mentioned it to him either, preferring to forget the whole thing, and she's not cruel enough to embarrass him like that. She hadn't understood at first why Davos liked Stannis, who's been his boss at Baratheon & Co. for the last seven years, but spending time with him at dinners and events by Davos' side she'd come to appreciate Stannis' blistering dry humour and his blunt lack of snobbery which bordered on rudeness.

That night in the hot tub is the only time she and Davos have been with someone else together, but it's not the only night with Davos that makes her blush to remember. Her prudish teenage self would be shocked at the things she's done, the things he makes her feel safe enough to do.

 _There's benefits to being with an older, more experienced man_ , her best friend Margaery had told her the night of Sansa's first date with him when she was hurriedly getting ready and panicking about what she had done agreeing to go out with him. Davos had taken her ice skating that night, knelt down in front of her to help her tie her skates on tight, held her hand as they skated, laughed at himself when he slid awkwardly into the barrier after avoiding a small child whizzing past, forgone the mulled wine for hot chocolate with her when she said she didn't drink on first dates, texted her to check she had gotten home safe and in the same text said he would very much like to see her again. It had been such a change from the dates she'd been on in the past, so easy and comfortable.

It snowed here in the north a week ago and though the road is clear the fields they pass by are hidden under a blanket of white, and strangely unfamiliar. But when she sees the ruin of the old church she sits up straight in her seat and points out the turning to make for the lane that leads to the village.

"Once more onto the breach," Davos says when their car pulls into the drive of the farmhouse.

Her mother and two younger brothers still live in the same house she grew up in, a low Edwardian farmhouse of warm red brick half-covered with ivy, although the farm animals were reduced to a smaller number after Ned died - a dozen chickens, one cow, three horses and a gaggle of dogs - and a couple of the fields sold to neighbouring farms. Nearly all of her childhood memories took place somewhere in the house or on its lands.

They get out of the car and make their way to the front door. Davos rubs his hands together and she pulls down her jumper, brings a hand up to try and smooth her static hair back from her face.

"Will I do?" she asks.

"Gorgeous as ever, sweetheart," he says and brings a hand to the back of her neck to pull her to him for a fortifying kiss.

She presses the buzzer and when she hears the sound of feet scurrying towards them she feels a smile spread across her face, a happiness at being _home_.

The lock on the door is fumbled with awkwardly and then the door swings open to reveal her little brother Rickon standing there.

"Sansa!" he says, beaming.

"Hello, Rickon," she says, reaching out a hand to ruffle his wild curls.

Rickon turns to Davos and pauses suddenly, his body stilling and his mouth opening in a gasp. "Santa?" he asks, voice tremulously excited.

"Oh my god," Sansa says under her breath, feeling her face flush bright red as her mother and Robb and Arya appear in her view, emerging from the kitchen at the end of the hall and, by their expressions, having heard exactly what Rickon said.

"Ah, no, I'm not Santa I'm afraid," Davos says. "My name is Davos."

"Santa?' Rickon asks again, eyes wide.

Arya looks like she's having a fit she's laughing so hard and Robb is hiding his own laughter behind a hand. Their mother is wearing a rictus grin, obviously trying very hard to be polite in the face of her children's behaviour and her first sight of Sansa's boyfriend.

"This isn't Santa, this is my boyfriend, Davos," Sansa says, the flush on her cheeks remaining.

"I'm not quite that fat, am I?" Davos questions, turning to her.

Sansa shakes her head while Rickon continues to stare at Davos with a mixture of awe and suspicion.

"Why don't we get back to the kitchen and decorate the cookies, Rickon," Robb says, tugging his brother's hand. "Nice to meet you," he nods to Davos who lifts a hand in greeting.

"And you must be Arya," Davos says, "I've been warned about your skills with a bow," he adds.

"That's good," Arya says, taking his offered hand to shake.

"Oh, and a strong handshake as well," Davos remarks, grinning as Arya smiles back a little darkly.

Arya reaches over to tug Sansa into a hug and Sansa happily hides her hot face in her sister's shoulder and hugs her tightly. Arya does her the kindness of not immediately repeating what Rickon said, even though Sansa knows that she's probably in for a world of ribbing from her siblings later.

"Mrs Stark," Davos says and Sansa watches him shake her mother's hand. Catelyn has rearranged her face into a more polite smile, though her eyes still look startled.

"Lovely to meet you, finally," Catelyn says a little pointedly, "I've heard lots about you." She glances at her daughter and Sansa knows that she's slightly irritated about the things she _hasn't_ heard, like quite how much older Davos is.

"Only the best, I hope," he says, putting a hand on Sansa's back and rubbing it softly so that Sansa can feel her shoulders loosen.

Catelyn smiles, somewhat thinly. "I've put you two-" she pauses for a tiny moment, "-in Sansa's old room up in the attic, she can show you the way. Will you need Robb to help you with your bags?" she asks, moving back down the hall.

"We'll be fine, thanks, Mrs Stark."

"It's Catelyn," her mother says and smiles and then turns towards the kitchen.

Sansa lets out a heavy sigh when the hall is empty again.

"Well," he says, "that could have gone worse."

She laughs and turns to hug him tightly and he kisses her on the forehead.

Later, once they've unpacked and Davos has called his eldest son Dale to wish him a merry Christmas Eve - a call which extends to half an hour as the phone is handed around the other sons that are on the other end of the call, and spending this year's Christmas with their mother Marya, Davos' ex-wife, and their various spouses - they descend to join the family in the lounge on the old squishy sofas.

Sansa gets a proper welcome home hug from Robb and from Bran, who looks so much older than she remembered and is growing the kind of scraggly beard that seems to be traditional for older teenage boys, and then her cousin Jon arrives at the back door from his house across the village and she gets a hug from him and his wife Ygritte as well. Rickon is helping their mother do up presents in the kitchen and every now and then they can hear his voice singing Christmas carols with nonsense lyrics drifting down the hall.

Davos receives a round of firm handshakes from her siblings who are doing their best to not-so-subtly size him up while he smiles affably under their scrutiny.

"If I had known that you were bringing Santa home, I'd have hired reindeers," Robb remarks.

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" Sansa says, hiding her face in her hands.

"I don't know how tomorrow's presents are going to compare to the arrival of Father Christmas himself," Arya says.

Sansa whines and drops her head back, feeling ten years younger and squirming with embarrassment.

"Did you know she had a Christmas fetish before you met her?" Arya continues, turning to Davos, who is sitting next to Sansa with one hand around his mug of tea and the other around her shoulders.

"Now that you mention it, there's an odd profusion of tinsel and Christmas tree lights in the bedroom of our flat," he says and Bran snorts a laugh.

Arya's eyes narrow. "Your flat? Have you moved in together? I didn't know that," she says. "Does mum know that?"

"Not yet," Sansa says breezily. "I only moved in a couple of months ago. It's near the school where I teach, and the station to get to the city for Davos' work."

"Hmm," Arya says.

"Where did you two meet?" Bran asks and Sansa mentally thanks him for being polite, unlike the rest of the pack of wolves that make up her family.

"Bingo hall? Over a game of bowls?" Jon suggests.

"Ha ha," Sansa replies sarcastically.

"We met in the park," Davos says, his voice coloured with warmth that makes Sansa smile, "I was the idiot who got tangled up in the leads of eight dogs belonging to one walker, and she came over and helped extricate me. I thanked her for her assistance by buying her an ice cream and somehow managed to charm her, I'm just as surprised as you are that she gave me the time of day."

He squeezes her shoulder and she rests her head on her hand.

"Sickening," Arya says fondly. "This one's always been a romance fan," she says to Davos, nodding her head at Sansa, "you shouldn't indulge her too much or she'll be expected a carriage ride through the snow or a room filled with roses."

"He's already taken me on a carriage ride," Sansa says, biting her lip, "when we had a trip up north."

She won't tell her sister about the room full of house plants he had bought Sansa for her last birthday, and how last week she caught him telling them jokes while he was watering them in the darkened kitchen just before dawn.

"Has he," Arya says, narrowing her eyes and then laughing.

"When are you going to take me on a romantic trip for two?" Ygritte asks Jon, poking him in the shoulder.

"When you stop spending so much money on replica medieval weaponry to put up on our walls," he retorts.

"A hotel room lasts for a night but a sword forever," Ygritte concedes.

Robb raises his eyebrows at Jon but Jon is too busy gazing fondly at his wife.

"No one else feel like bringing their boyfriends/girlfriends to Christmas this year?" Sansa asks.

"I don't know what you mean," Robb says.

"Coward," Arya says. "Gendry would have come but he's got a blacksmith competition to win."

Catelyn comes into the room, arms full of wrapping paper and sellotape. "Anyone need to do any last minute wrapping?" she asks, looking pointedly at Arya who holds out her hands to take the lot. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, everyone. Sansa," Catelyn says, and Sansa freezes like she's been caught climbing out of her bedroom window, "can you help me with the potatoes?"

"Of course," Sansa says. "You stay here," she says to Davos and kisses him on the cheek.

"Sure?" he murmurs and looks over the back of the sofa.

"Yup," she says, nodding. Time to face the music.

She follows her mother into the kitchen and opens a drawer to find the potato masher.

"So," her mother says, "Davos seems...he seems..."

Sansa closes her eyes and steels herself.

"He's so much _older_ than you, darling, I got quite a fright when I saw him standing on the doorstep," she says, letting out a short laugh.

"I'm twenty four, mum, I'm not a child."

"And how old is he?"

"Forty nine," Sansa says. It's not like her and Davos haven't worried about the age difference, haven't discussed it often.

"Exactly," her mother says, stirring the casserole on the hob, "And you have to think of the future, how old will he be in ten years, in twenty? He seems very charming but you're not getting any younger, and I know you want to be a mother someday."

Sansa tries to get her head around her mother's odd logic - she's too young, but she's not getting any younger - and tries to ignore the second part of her sentence. When she was growing up it was her dream to be a mother but lately she hasn't been sure. Teaching fulfils some of those dreams and she feels selfish about her own time and space.

"I'm happy, he makes me happy," she says, putting a little too much force into her mashing of the potatoes.

"I know, and I know you've had a hard time of it, but I just want you to think about your future. See your relationship for what it is and not stick your head in the sand."

"We moved in together a few months ago."

Her mother stills.

"A lovely ground floor two bed with big windows, an Aga, and a small garden out back. It's perfect, you'd love it, mum," Sansa says, opening the fridge to find the butter.

Her mother sighs and shakes her head.

A knock on the doorframe makes them both turn around.

"Excuse me," Davos says, "I didn't want to interrupt, just wanted to pop out to the garden before dinner," he asks.

"Go right ahead," Catelyn says, using her magnanimous tone of voice.

He nods at Sansa and leaves and is joined in a few moments by Jon and Ygritte.

"He's a smoker, is he," her mother comments.

"So was Dad," Sansa replies, trying not to regress to teenage pettiness.

Bran wheels himself into the kitchen next and starts setting the table and Sansa sighs in relief.

But that relief is short-lived because after they've sat down to their meal and made the usual smalltalk about the food, which is excellent as ever, Catelyn turns to Davos and asks, as she helps herself to more mashed potatoes, "Sansa said that you're a father, are your children with your ex-wife today?" she asks.

"I am, I have seven sons," Davos says, smiling proudly, and Sansa sees her mother's fork pause on the way to her mouth, and bites her lip on a hysterical laugh that wants to come out. "Most of them are with Marya today, yes."

"Seven," Catelyn repeats.

"I had them young, I was eighteen when the first was born and the youngest is twenty two now."

"Have any of them had children of their own yet?" Catelyn asks.

Sansa sighs and looks over to Arya who is shovelling in mouthfuls of casserole and flicking her eyes back and forth between their mother and Sansa and Davos, as if she's watching a tennis match.

"Matthos' wife is pregnant at the moment so I'll be a grandfather soon," he says unabashedly, and Sansa reaches out to squeeze his hand. He turns to smile at her.

Her mother's face is looking quite pained.

"And you've met his sons, have you Sansa?" Catelyn asks.

"Yes, and Marya, his ex-wife, she's a sculptor," Sansa says.

"How wonderful," Catelyn responds, and Sansa looks over to see Jon holding his lips tightly together as if to hold back a laugh.

"You didn't want to invite Jeyne tonight?" Sansa pointedly asks Robb.

Catelyn turns to her firstborn. "Who's Jeyne?" she asks pleasantly.

Sansa winks at a flustered Robb.

"My girlfriend," he says, tearing a large strip of bread from the loaf in the middle of the table.

"Well, she's always welcome for a visit," Catelyn says, the threat of later motherly interrogation clear.

Ygritte stands up to refill the water jug. Sansa smiles at Robb across the table while he shakes his head at her, pretending to be angry.

Catelyn sighs, and seems to soften. "They grow up so fast, Davos," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting wryly.

"That they do. If you don't mind me saying, you've raised a wonderful family, Catelyn. Your children are a credit to you and it's a very warm house you have here. I'm thankful to you for opening your home to me."

"You're very welcome, Davos," she says, smiling warmly.

"Arya welcomed Davos by challenging him to an arm-wrestling match just now in the lounge," Bran pipes up, after they've all been quietly eating for a few moments now the chilly atmosphere has thawed.

"Not with your bow arm?" Catelyn says worriedly.

"I didn't strain it," Arya argues.

"How quickly did she beat you?" Sansa asks Davos.

He looks at her, unimpressed.

"Seven seconds," Bran says.

"Thank you, Bran," Davos says sarcastically, "I was trying to hold onto the last tatters of my manly pride."

"Don't worry, old man, I'm sure you would have beaten me in your prime," Arya suggests.

"Now look here," Davos says and everyone, aside from Catelyn, laughs.

Sansa nudges his foot with hers and smiles at him when he looks at her.

"Give us a carol," Ygritte calls to Rickon, who is wriggling around in his seat and looks ready to leap up and run around the room.

"Which one?" he asks seriously, as if he has a stack of scores in front of him.

"Your favourite," Robb offers.

Rickon nods, opens his mouth, and sings a song that barely resembles Hark the Herald Angels Sing and has a fair number of rude words substituted in.

"Lovely," Ygritte says, cutting him off after two minutes when his voice has started to go up in pitch and volume.

"That was excellent, Rickon," Davos offers.

"Thank you, Santa," he replies and Sansa can't tell whether or not he's joking but it makes people laugh just the same, and Rickon sits there looking proud.

 

After dinner, she and Davos make their way upstairs to her old room. She's relieved that her mother had it done up a few years ago, because the pink paint colour that she had chosen when she was thirteen was embarrassingly bright, and all the other detritus of her teenage years was painful to see and remember. The one good thing about her attic room is that the walls are so thick that sound doesn't carry to the rest of the house which was excellent for those difficult teenage years when she tried to drown out her pain with loud music and late night movie watching.

She flops down on the bed and watches Davos pull off his jumper to reveal one of her favourite soft henleys underneath. It's oddly soothing to see him here, and not as jarring as she thought it might be to be in a house with him and the rest of her family combined.

"I don't think I've done a Santa roleplay before," he muses. "Do you want to give it a go, be my Mistress Claus?"

"No," she says, laughing and shaking her head back and forth.

"Good, I'm open to many things in the bedroom, as you well know, but I draw the line at wearing a fatsuit. Is that terrible of me?" he asks with a straight face while Sansa cackles away on the bed.

"Are you laughing at me? Sex is a serious matter, Sansa, no giggling allowed," he says sternly and then leans over to kiss her.

"You are rather heavy," she laughs.

"You take that back, young lady," he says, and then lets his body fall in a dead feint over hers and pretends to snore as she laughs.

"They did warn me about the stamina of older men," she says at the ceiling.

"Now look here," he says, pushing himself up on his arms above her.

She holds a hand on her chest, gasping with the tail end of her laughter, and smiles up at him, and he smiles back. Moments like this are why he makes her so happy, why she can't imagine being with anyone else.

"Do you want to open your early Christmas present?" she asks, wriggling under him.

He groans and moves a hand to clutch her hip and then ducks his head to kiss her.

"Don't mind if I do," he says between kisses and she bites at his bottom lip and widens her thighs, pulling him closer to her.

He grinds his hips into hers and she whines at the feeling, freeing her hands to help tug off his top and then pull hers off too. He lifts up on his knees above her and undoes his belt, watching her hungrily as she undoes her bra and lies back on the bed staring up at him unabashedly. There's something about the sound of his belt being pulled from its loops that makes her hips feel liquid. She groans and leans forward to help drag his trousers and boxers down.

He dips his mouth to suck at her nipples and she holds his head and gasps, squeezing her eyes shut and curling her toes as he shifts her body further up the bed and works a hand between her legs. He hisses when he finds out how wet she is and adjusts his hips to thrust himself inside of her in one smooth stroke. _Fuck_ , he grunts, as she rocks her hips up towards him, and she tries to hold back a cry.

Normally he gets to show off his stamina but something about the anxiety of the day has her coming within minutes, her legs almost cramping with the strength of it as he pushes deep and holds. _There you are, good girl_ , he murmurs and she trembles and pulses again, digging her nails into his back. Then she lets her head drop back, her body humming, and hooks her ankles around his legs as he finishes inside of her with three deep strokes.

An echo of her earlier laughter comes back to her once she has her breath back and she feels him smile into her shoulder.

"Please don't ruin this by making a bad Santa-themed pun," he says long-sufferingly, and she breaks out into giggles.

 

A while later, she leaves Davos sleeping, with a fond smile, and joins her older siblings and cousin in the lounge. It's a Stark family tradition to stay up late on Christmas Eve with mulled wine and gossip, and the occasional game of cards if someone can manage to find the pack in the back of the over-stuffed hall cupboard.

"Here she is, Santa's little helper," Robb says and the others cheer.

Sansa bows at the door with a flourish that finishes with her sticking her middle finger up at him, the effect rather ruined by her fuzzy unicorn dressing gown.

"Pass me some wine," she says, slouching into a seat.

Arya nudges her a mug and Sansa takes a long sip and then shivers at the sour-sweetness.

"Well, dinner was a disaster," Sansa says.

"Not as much a disaster as the dinner me and Ygritte had with Rhaegar and my mum last year," Jon says. "He set the table in the Michelin-starred restaurant alight and set off the sprinklers and _then_ demanded a refund."

"Speaking of father figures..." Arya says and Sansa stares at her, feeling a tiny curl of angry shame. Arya shrugs. "I was just going to say that Dad would have liked him, Davos. He would probably have taken him on a long walk in the wood while carrying his shotgun, but he would have liked him."

"Thanks," Sansa says, looking down at her mug. "I think so too."

"Miles better than the others," Robb remarks and she can see his fists clench on the tabletop as he says it.

"Is it stupid of me not to realise that his longer beard makes him look vaguely like Santa?" Sansa asks, eager to ease the conversation into lighter fare and willing to welcome their mockery to do it.

"I thought I was going to piss myself when Rickon said that," Arya says, cackling wildly.

"Well, he is almost a grandfather, Sansa," Jon mocks, his sullen mouth twitching at the corner.

"I can't believe you're going to be a stepmum to seven grown up sons," Bran says.

"What?" Sansa says.

"That man is smitten," Ygritte says, pointing at her. Ygritte is a frequent, aggressive, pointer and it took some time for Sansa to get to used to it when she first met her.

"Well, he hasn't asked, and I haven't said yes yet, so it's all moot," Sansa says.

"Mmm," Arya says.

Ygritte goes back into the kitchen to bring back more wine and comes back with biscuits too. They try and guess which animals Rickon had tried to shape with the gingerbread biscuits he made.

"Giraffe?" Jon ponders, holding out a thin biscuit.

"Elephant," Arya says with confidence.

"Shall we light the candle for dad?" Bran asks once they've munched their way through the pile, glancing over at the clock.

"Yes," Robb says, resting a hand on Bran's shoulder and then moving to the cupboard to get it.

Sansa turns off the lights and they gather round the mantelpiece.

Bran is the one who lights the candle this year, after sharing his memory of Ned - the time their father attempted to bake a coffee cake for Catelyn's birthday and brought out a flaming rock from the oven several hours later.

Then they take it in turns to tell other stories - the time Ned accidentally taught a tiny Arya how to say fuck and told everyone who heard her that she was trying to say 'duck' instead, the five hours he drove Sansa just so she could buy the next book in a series a week before it would be delivered to the local bookshop, the morning the cows got loose and he ran out of the house so fast he forgot to put on trousers, and the Christmas Eve when he and Lyanna got drunk and fell asleep under the tree.

Bran yawns once they're done. "Right, I'm off to bed. I've got a skype call early that I need to wake up for."

"With a girl?" Arya teases, yawning herself, and then leaning over to blow out the candle.

"Maybe," Bran replies, inscrutable as ever.

The Starks disperse for the night and Sansa tiptoes upstairs, removing her dressing gown and slipping into bed. Davos wakes up with her wriggling and turns to pull her into him, murmuring. She kisses him on the cheek and rest her head on his warm chest.

"Merry Christmas," she whispers.

"The same to you," he says, tilting her head up to kiss her and then slinging an arm across her back.

 

*

 

Davos wakes up before Sansa and smiles at the snuffling noise she's making in her sleep, reaching out a hand to gently brush her hair back from her face.

He's going to ask this girl to marry him soon, when they're back south and it's just the two of them.

He's told his sons and Marya already, and they've ribbed him about his midlife crisis and her youth. Steffon sent him a selection of age difference memes to which Davos had responded asking _what's a 'me-me'?_ and then spent half an hour listening to his son try and explain the finer points of internet humour before Davos cracked and told him that of course he knew what a meme was, he wasn't a Luddite.

Sansa might say no when he asks her but it's important to ask, to let her know that he's in this for as long as she wants.

"Morning," she murmurs, rousing with a smack of her lips.

"Did you have fun last night?" he asks, running a hand across her warm back.

"We lit a candle for our dad," she says and he shifts towards her to see her face better.

"Do you do that every year?"

"Mm-hm," she says.

He strokes the backs of his fingers down her soft cheek.

"We share stories we remember about him, funny stories."

"Was he a funny guy, your dad?"

"No," she shakes her head on the pillow, "but he made us laugh, and he could laugh at himself too."

"That's a good quality to have," he says. "It sounds trite to say I wish I could have met him but it's true."

"I wish you could have too," she says. "He wouldn't have interrogated you quite as much as my mother did."

"Ah, she didn't jump across the kitchen table and try and stab me so it went OK, she's quite fearsome but I like to think I held my own."

"You were quaking in your boots," she says and he scoffs.

 

Sansa's siblings have prepared in advance for their arrival to breakfast by queuing up that Jimmy Boyd classic, 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus' on a speaker, and Davos gives them what they want by snogging Sansa in the doorway of the kitchen while Rickon complains loudly that they're being gross.

Catelyn doesn't look too happy when he pulls back and they take their seats, but Davos is in it for the long haul and he'll soften her yet. Catelyn's just trying to be protective.

Sansa is more like her mother than she'd like to admit, protective like her and steely-nerved, he's seen it when she comes home from teaching, talking with riotous fury about the injustices some of her pupils have endured, marching in to school the next day to meet the offending teacher or fearsome parents head on. She'd make a wonderful mother, if she decides she wants that, or a brilliant aunt.

"Morning all and Merry Christmas," he says, as he pours coffee for Sansa.

"Merry Christmas!" Rickon shouts and then turns to his mother, "Is it present time yet?" he checks.

"After we've finished breakfast," Catelyn says and Rickon whines.

"What are you hoping to get for Christmas, Rickon?" Davos asks and then diligently listens to a long breathless description of some kind of action toy.

Arya distracts her little brother with a series of gold chocolate coins she produces like magic so that they can all finish their breakfast.

"I hope you're not disappointed with your present from me," Sansa murmurs to Davos as she moves to help tidy the table.

"Unlikely, since you showed it to me when you bought it," he remarks, thinking of the fancy portable camping stove she had bought him.

It's too naff to tell her that she's all the Christmas present he needs for this year and however many more years they have together, so he'll make a joke about it later.

He and Marya had loved each other, and raised seven boys together, and then found other people to love when they had grown apart from one other, and what kind of lucky sod is he to have found Sansa, to have somehow made her fall for him too.

He looks around at her family and imagines a future Christmas in some future home, inviting the Starks to meet the Seaworths, and all the glorious mayhem that will ensue, the noise, the mess, the laughter.

They head to the lounge with everyone else and Sansa flops down beside him on the couch, cuddling up to him as he lifts his arm behind her.

"Regretting coming here?" she asks, as three of her siblings phones start playing that bloody tune in stereo.

"Eh," he says, screwing up his face and rocking his hand from side to side.

She snorts a laugh.

He turns serious. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world, sweetheart," he says and kisses her again.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/168071138732/sansa-is-expecting-her-family-to-embarrass-her)
> 
> also, I think the next Davos/Sansa fic I write will be a canon-divergent fic, which should be an interesting challenge...


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